Les Souvenirs de la Révolution
by Velgamidragon
Summary: Oneshot. While his citizens celebrated his Independance Day, France once more relived the horror and the mind-numbing fear of the Reign of Terror that had followed this day in 1789.


**Author's Note: Inspired by the fact that my bestie made a b-day vid for America which reminded me that France's Independence Day is July 14th. The day is called Bastille Day among English-speaking countries, but in France, it is commonly called "le quatorze juillet" (literally 'July 14th'). The title, translated, is 'Revolution's Memories'.**

**EDIT: Thanks to two of my reviewers, I learned that the current French president is François Hollande, but since he just won the election this year (and I would have to rewrite part of this story otherwise), please pretend that this particular moment took place last year same day?**

**Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me, but I merely frolic in the universe that is largely based upon true historical events as well as stereotypes. The idea, however, _is_ mine.**

* * *

Les Souvenirs de la Révolution

France really had to thank America for sharing some of his _own_ Independence Day traditions with him from all those years ago. Of course, the younger nation had only been too _happy_ to oblige when it meant setting off even more booming fireworks that were sure to deafen his ears. His people probably loved them just as much, but there was only one thing that France cared to indulge in on this day:_ le 14 juillet_.

"Monsieur la France, we have adjourned for the day."

France snapped to attention and only just realized that Monsieur le Président Nicolas Sarkozy was standing before him and watching him with a pensive expression on his face. The blond-haired nation gazed about for a quick moment and saw that it was just the two of them who remained and the clock indicated that they were finished two hours earlier than normal, even for a holiday.

"Monsieur?"

France smiled gratefully at the man and stood up from his ever-relaxing armchair, "My undying gratitude is yours, Monsieur le Président. I wish you a wonderful holiday."

And with no more effusive words, France left the meeting room, the president following shortly after. He _was_ grateful to Sarkozy. The man had served as his boss for a couple years and understood exactly how he felt today. No further explanations were needed. Upon exiting the building, France stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed about him, wondering in which direction he should head. In the end, his feet took him in the direction of the Sorbonne. He knew there was a shop nearby that had _exactly_ what he needed for this holiday and then he would return home without further delay. He was barely holding himself together today as it was, but he couldn't stop here. Not yet. He had to get home first. He couldn't start dissembling here on the sidewalk. Not here! Not in this place!

He reached the shop in good time even with his thoughts askew and not completely on where he was going. Just went to show how little Paris had changed to the point where he knew it even better than the back of his hand and could sleepwalk to any part of his precious capital if he were so inclined. The first order of business was to decide what he wanted, which was easy enough. Definitely something strong and _none_ of his beautiful wine! He would not dare use something so refined for such crude and basic purposes. He was actually feeling in a mood for gin. Perhaps with a blend of vodka. That ought to be interesting. France paid for the gin and the vodka with several euros and carried his two best friends back to his house which didn't seem to take that long to the ancient nation because once again today, he was not completely paying attention and more relying on instinct. No sooner had he stepped through the front door did he bolt it and set the two bottles on the table. Then he began the yearly ritual of setting his house in order to destroy as little as possible and protect himself from harm whenever he reached the heavenly peak of being totally smashed. Oh yes, he was ready to have a grand old time tonight!

Once his furniture had been reorganized, France entered his room and changed into less formal attire: a stained leaf green t-shirt and a pair of shorts with a badly-frayed hem. For France especially, it was downright dreadful attire, but for this one day, he didn't care and it's not like anyone else would be here to see him in this disgraced state. He even pulled his wavy, shoulder-length blond hair into a rough ponytail. He knew how he went full-out with his drinking and he was not about to make clean-up even _more_ difficult than it was going to be the next morning with a massive headache. Everything was set and now he was ready to get completely wasted!

Sitting himself down in a spare wooden chair, France helped himself out first to the vodka, then to the gin, and then to a little of both until there was no rhyme or reason to which drink he sloshed into his glass to down heartily, all the while singing America's praises that this was one acceptable way that some of his people celebrated America's birthday. That it was also the darling, energetic child's Independence Day was pure coincidence. His 'Independence Day', his '_le quatorze juillet_', was not _his_ birthday and for that, he was grateful! He would never wish for his birthday to be on such a horrible day! 'Independence Day'? Phaugh! His own first revolution – yeah, _first _revolution! - had done nothing but bring about endless terror followed by an empire which resulted in the death of- He wasn't drunk enough. He could recall it too well still. Another glass of gin. He was feeling relatively blissful at the moment.

France lazily gazed out the kitchen window and caught site of his precious _le Tour Eiffel_ standing strong and beautiful in her iron-clad beauty before a rosy red sunset. It stood there so innocently and the sky felt no great sadism for the Latin country, but still France remembered another time when there had been no tower and the sky had been red. A terrible, malevolent _blood_ red-! He cried out as though in pain and turned away from the window, pouring more vodka into his glass and sloshing more of it then normal in his shaking, panic-stricken hands. No one... No one remembered. It was so long ago now that not even stories of the Revolution were passed among the hearths by the elders. Once more, he was the only one left living to remember the horror. The horror of such magnitude that not even the most compelling storyteller could fully deliver that sense of endless fear into his bone marrow. He was not sufficiently duped yet.

Growling at himself, France poured some more of his vodka-gin mixture and swallowed it, but those horrific memories had sunk their teeth and would not let go until they'd rendered him to shreds once more. Blood and terror of Revolution. Cursed images swirling about his head in sharp, vivid recall. He threw his head into the table as if to knock the memories out of his brain, but they held fast. _This_ time, they would not let him escape into unconscious, alcoholic bliss. It happened every forty years or so. Apparently, this was one of those years, but he was already far gone, lost to the present and trapped in the memories of his own past: the memories that began in the year of 1789 and the Reign of Terror that trod upon its heels:

_Blood splashing the deep set cobblestones like a red, red waterfall._

_No! Don't kill him! Not Louis Auguste! He's a good boy, he's not responsible for this! It's not his fault! He was trying to help, he didn't want this! His father and grandfather are more the monsters you seek, not him! Please no, **don't!**_

_Voices hoarse with screaming rose and fell in terror and anger._

_And that street there...! Wasn't that the one Marie Antoinette was paraded down to the guillotine? Wasn't that her now? ! !** No**, not her too! Not sweet, spunky Marie of Austria! Not Austria's little darling! This isn't fair! **This isn't fair! NOO! ! !**_

_Thousands of heads rolled as a result of the most efficient execution blade ever made. It was to make execution less drawn-out and painful and was now used as a weapon for mass murder by the throaty cries of treachery!_

"_I'm sorry! I never meant for this to happen! I never wanted **this**!" France cried out with all his heart in total sincerity at the feet of another._

_Those children! Oh, those poor defenseless children! ! No mother, no father, and a population that hates them- how! How did this happen? Where did I go wrong? ! Why, dear **God, WHY? ? ?** What harm have those children ever done? ! ? !_

_The violet-eyed nation glared hatefully down at him and there was great despair in those eyes. **"MURDERER!** YOU KILLED HER! You never bothered- never tried to make your people accept her! You killed Marie and I will **never** forgive you for this! You hear me? ! **NEVER! ! !"**_

_The blood. The terror. The starvation. The terror. Always the terror! Mistrust and fear. And hatred. It held him prisoner in his own mind better than bars._

Eventually, once his mental reserves were depleted and the full effects of the alcohol he'd consumed were employed upon his brain, the nightmarish scenes would leave him and he'd be thrown into the black abyss of cool nothingness until the next morning when the sun would come up and awaken everyone with its cheerful glow while France grumbled and growled about his aching headache as per his usual self when he drank himself stupid. One may be swayed to believe that he was fine now. That he wasn't plagued by those awful images the next day, but they would be fools to think so. Those memories... that history... like all other horrors, it constantly lurked in the dark recesses of his mind to torment him when he relaxed his mental vigil and let his thoughts wander through his life. How could he ever forget those terrible years? He couldn't. If over 200 years of time had not dulled their sharp, deadly edge, then nothing would. Every European country, even young Germany, had suffered similar hardships as him during their own long lives, but even this truth could not console him even slightly.

* * *

_Of course, **why** would I want to write something even remotely celebratory for France? And **why** would I want to write him as his normal, overly-exuberant, flamboyant self like he is in the anime? It would seem that I enjoy writing him more somber and serious with a dash of some emotional trauma. I guess it's my way of making him more human. France has his own bloody history too and I can't really imagine that he would have acted like his normal glamorous self during those times **or** that those times wouldn't have affected him._


End file.
